


Here's Hoping We Collide

by milleniumfxlcon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, enjoltaire - Freeform, exr - Freeform, lesmis - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7675072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milleniumfxlcon/pseuds/milleniumfxlcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The barricades have fallen, but not the lone two survivors. Recuperating in a convent, Grantaire pursues his artistic passion while Enjolras spirals into a depression in Marius' Grandfather's house. Thinking the other dead, they mourn the death of the other-till their paths cross again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire groaned as he opened his eyes again, gazing up at a domed ceiling, complete with a Renaissance painting. He felt soft sheets under him, and his body ached. R pulled his broken body up with some effort. Ah, the convent. But what was he doing here? "Hello?" The youth called cautiously, his wary irises travelling the length of the room.

"You were hurt badly in the barricade." A feminine voice replied. "We pulled you from the wreckage before the National Guards got to it. The name's Sister Cheryl. Us at the convent, we're supporters of the Amis. Though we don't tell that to the authorities." She laughed dryly. "You can't go out of here. Or they'll make sure you hang for treason."

"The barricade?" It was all hazy to him. Faces floated across his mind, far from reach- "Enjolras! Did he make it out too?" Grantaire shifted violently in the bed. "Tell me." He had seen his Apollo fall. If he lived, was there a chance that the other did? "The rest all died. Courf, Joly, Bossuet, Gav, Prouvaire. They're all dead. And it's all because I decided to hide for the most part of the fighting."

"We don't know if Enjolras made it out." Cheryl replied slowly. "We couldn't find him at the barricade." She looked at him with a mix of pity and pride. "You were part of the Amis. That's the only part I care about. Rest, R. Your injuries need time to heal." She gently placed a cup of tea by his bedside. "No alcohol for you."

He had never been sober for this long. It was disconcerting for the inebriate, who was used to nights of getting drunk. Grantaire shook his head. "I shall get better, Cheryl, if I had a bottle of absinthe or two." Grantaire was known to be stubbornly persistent. "I can't go a day without drinking."

The teenager shook her head. "You can." Cheryl rolled her eyes. "When you're slightly better, I'll consider it." Sister Cheryl was a raven-haired girl of fair complexion, and a great beauty, but possessed a firm mind. "I won't have you drinking in my convent every night. That won't happen at all."

Grantaire sighed in resignation. "I guess I owe you thanks for saving my life." He looked at her. "It's not so bad in a convent, surrounded by pretty girls." The inebriate smirked. "I could get used to this life."

Sister Cheryl laughed slightly. "You'll find that we're not as pretty as we seem, Monsieur Grantaire. Especially if you insist on the wine."

\-------------  
"Can you hear me?"

The gentle voice jolted the blonde out of the tunnel of death. He opened his eyes, seeing faces spinning around him. Then the world focused, and everything was clear. "Marius?" Enjolras was surprised. "Am I in heaven?" He was too weak to sit up, and his body seemed to hurt with the force of a thousand bullets. "How am I still alive?"

"Valjean got to you in time." Marius replied. "I asked him to. He's not here now, however. He had to leave for Cosette's safety. You're at my house. My grandfather's, anyway." He smiled down at his friend. "You almost didn't make it." 

"It hurts so much." Enjolras smiled weakly up at Marius. "Thank you." Suddenly, Grantaire's face flashed in his hazy state of consciousness. "What about R? We got shot together. If I live, there might be a chamce that he survived. I never got the chance to tell him something."

"He's dead, Enj. Valjean said he couldn't even hear R breathe." Marius looked away. "I'm sorry. I know how much Grantaire meant to you. He died for you." 

"Shut up, Marius." Enjolras snapped bitterly. "He's dead." It was as if his world was in monochrome. "And I never appreciated him when he was alive." His eyes lacked their usual passion, a shell of the former revolutionary he had been. "The people. They didn't rise! They're the reason this rebellion failed. They're the reason why R is dead!" Enjolras convulsed violently as the pain washed over his battered body like a wave. "I-I'm sorry, Marius. It's just hard to deal with."

Marius nodded in understanding. "I don't blame you. But you shouldn't exert yourself too much. The pain gets worse if you do." He poured a glass of wine, offering it to his friend. "Drink. You're thirsty." What Marius failed to notice however, was that the wine he had poured out was Grantaire's favourite brand. "Some wine would do you good."

Enjolras however, noticed. It felt like a stab to the heart to know that he had survived, but the one person who had not abandoned him in his death was lost forever. "No. I'm not thirsty." Still, the youth accepted the glass, drinking it slowly. "He loved this brand. I remember going shopping with him once for wine. When we were students. Good times."

Marius, only just realising his mistake, was quick to apologise. "I didn't know." There were plenty of things Marius didn't know, having lived a sheltered, self-absorbed life for the past nineteen years. "You can stay with us even after you get better. I don't mind, honestly. But it'll almost be like living in a convent. You can't go out, unless disguised,"

"Marius." Enjolras looked up at his friend. "I owe you and Valjean my life. You didn't have to save my worthless soul." He gripped the sheets tightly as he set the wineglass down, the pain clearly apparent on his tortured features. "If anything, it should have been Grantaire that you had saved."


	2. Two- Familiar Strangers

\------------  
THREE YEARS LATER  
JULY 2, 1835

"I couldn't have done this without you." Grantaire grinned at Sister Cheryl, whom he was content with calling just Cheryl. "You got me a place in the art fair. That means a lot to me." He now sported blonde locks, dyed from his usual black to avoid suspicion. The three years Grantaire had spent in the convent had changed him. Now, he looked slightly more handsome, had a pretty girlfriend and his former leader's blonde locks. Only, he reflected, he was no Enjolras.

"Anything for you." Cheryl replied as she shifted his canvas in place. "Don't stress the crutch. You're not fully healed." In those three years, she had gone from harboring animosity towards Grantaire to admiring him for who he was. "Your paintings never fail to amaze." A line had formed at the makeshift booth which had been set up, eager to have a look at the artist's enchanting paintings. "Look. You've got fans." The young woman smiled. "You'll sell today, that's for sure."

"Your amount of faith in a former inebriate amuses me." Grantaire chuckled. He had managed to stop his addiction to alcohol. It was a shame that Enjolras wasn't alive to see it. "Wait-" He spotted a familar figure in the crowd. "That's Marius. He survived the barricades?" Grantaire wanted to go to him and ask about his Apollo, however, he could not do so without raising the suspicion of Inspector Kaine, who was perhaps worse than Javert. 

"He's in the line." Cheryl glanced at Marius, who was with a dark haired boy with an awkward walk. "Him and another. The other looks like he was hurt in some fight. Worse off than whatever you suffered. He's covering up those wounds with that shirt of his." She felt comforted that Marius had survived, knowing that perhaps, Grantaire would have another friend. "You should talk to him."

\---------

"Looks like you've got an admirer." Enjolras raised an eyebrow, seeing the girl assisting the famous artist glance in their direction. He had dyed his hair a dark shade of brown, knowing that he would be recognised instantly for his blonde locks. "She's pretty." He never smiled anymore. It was rare to see him display any other emotion than anger or amusement. "Only your fianceé'd disapprove." He hated everything about Paris. The streets held no appeal anymore, and the people were nothing more than callous ingrates who had refused the call. "It's a long line. Honestly, I'd rather be back at your grandfather's house playing chess and drinking wine."

Marius sighed as he gave his friend a small smile. "Enj. You know why we're out here. The doctors said you'd become depressed in that house. So I'm taking you out painting shopping. R would have admired these when he was alive. You can't change fate, Enj. But as long as R's alive in your memory, he's not truly dead. If you're not living for yourself anymore, then live for him."

"Live for him?" Enjolras shook his head. "You talk of R as if he's dead." His voice sounded hollow. "Grantaire's not dead. I know it." Enjolras had refused to believe that Grantaire was dead. Words to him, meant nothing if there was no proof of this cruel blow fate had dealt him. His eyes moved to the paintings. It was an ethereal experience. There was a painting of a wine bottle, drawn with all the passion of an experienced artist Enjolras could see Grantaire reaching for the bottle. "That's his favourite brand." The youth muttered.

"Whose?" Grantaire had noticed the dark haired young man and Marius look at the paintings. "This one's an early painting. When I was recovering from....an accident." Something about the dark haired young man stirred an unreachable memory. "The painting was inspired by me. That's my favourite brand of wine. The colours blend together perfectly well...."

The artist reminded him of himself. He could see it now, the nights spent giving speeches at the Musain to an enraptured audience. With all the passion the artist was talking about his art, he could have spoke about revolution and captivated many more. "It's really artistic." Enjolras weakly managed. Something about the artist had seemed almost familar. But what? Grantaire was gone. Yet, something about the artist reminded him of the other. "I'm Sarlojne Antoine." The streets were too dangerous to use his real name, for fear of being detected. "What's yours?"

Grantaire had noticed the look of recognition in Enjolras' eyes. It was too glaring to ignore-No. Enjolras was dead. He was imagining things. "The name's André Musain." He had not forgotten his former life, nor did he wish to. As such, he had kept the name of the Musain café as his last name. "Would you perhaps, be interested in this one? It's a painting of the Friends of The ABC."

"W-What?" Enjolras' eyes turned to the painting. He could see the well defined form of himself standing on a table, raising the red flag. On the left was Courfeyrac-"This." His eyes were now fixated on André. "This seems all too familar. You're talented. It's almost as if I was there, giving that speech."

"That's Enjolras." The words had slipped so casually from his mouth. "I mean-that's their leader. I've heard his speeches were the music of angels." Grantaire had signalled to Cheryl as he laid a cloth over his painting. Who else had heard him? "We're closing now, actually. That painting wasn't meant to be shown."

"Wait!" Enjolras called. "I want to buy that painting." His sudden interruption had drawn the stares of half the crowd. "It just reminds me of a life I used to know." Marius had already dragged him by the arm, muttering something about Enjolras being drunk. "I screwed up, didn't I?

Marius shook his head. "What the hell were you thinking?" He whispered. "Sure, you might have dyed your hair black, changed your name, but it's not these traits that make you who you are." He sighed in exasperation. "I'll buy that painting in the evening, but we should return home. It's not safe now that people are watching you."

Enjolras nodded, his thoughts swirling around the familar stranger. André Musain. The Musain Café. It was almost as if André had been part of the revolution. However, he had known no such individual. "Marius. Tell André I want a commission. He'll come to the house at eight tomorrow morning. There's something I need to ask him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably be updating every Thursday and Sunday, but updates will be a little slow due to exams. That said, if there's anything I can improve on, feel free to comment below!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is my first fanfiction, so bear with me if it gets a little awkward! The details are as historically accurate as possible, but if there's a problem with that, feel free to comment below!


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